Leave Her to Hell

by Flora, Fletcher

  “I’m not sure. There seems to be a connection with someone else I’m interested in.”

  “You think you may know who the driver was?”

  “No. Not that. I guess that’s something we’ll never know.”

  “You can’t tell. It might come sooner or later. If it does, though, it’ll be plain good luck and nothing else. The guilty guy may get drunk and talk too much in a bar. It’s happened before. Someone who knows who he is and what he did may get sore for some reason and squeal. That’s happened before too.”

  “I admit it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem likely.”

  “You’re right. It’s not likely.”

  “You never did learn anything that wasn’t published, then? Some bit of evidence that wasn’t enough for a charge but still might be significant?”

  “No. Not a thing. In my opinion, you’re at dead end fooling around with that old case. Like I said, it’ll be plain good luck if it’s ever solved.”

  “I don’t doubt it. I wasn’t really expecting to learn anything new.”

  “In that case, let’s forget the business and go have a cold beer for old time’s sake. I been owing you one for a long time for those two hours I kept you in jail.”

  “A cold beer sounds good,” I said.

  We drove in my car to a neighborhood tavern and took turns buying beers while we talked old times, and then I took him back to the jail and left him and drove on alone to the city, and it was about six when I got there, and about seven when I got home after having a steak in a steak house.

  The room was neat and lonely. The bed was made, and the litter was cleared, and the room was neat and lonely.

  Jim Beam was on the dresser, and I poured a couple of fingers and drank them. There was a note on the dresser beside Jim, and I read it. I left some coffee in the pot in case you might come back and want it, the note said. I went over to the hot plate and looked in the pot, and the cold coffee was there. I turned on the plate and waited, and pretty soon the coffee began to get hot and smell like old coffee reheated. I didn’t really want any of it, but I drank a cup for the principle of the thing. It was getting dark, but I didn’t turn on a light. I don’t know that I’ve ever sat by myself in a neater and lonelier room.

  After a while I turned on a light and consulted the telephone directory to see if Robin had a listed number. She had one, and I dialed it, and she answered after the phone had rung three times at her end.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I said.

  “Whom did you want?” she said.

  “I’m satisfied with what I’ve got,” I said.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You have a wrong number.”

  The line went dead, and I hung up and sat down on the edge of the bed, which she had not folded into the wall after making, and it seemed to me that one of two things was true. Either she had not wanted to talk in the hearing of someone who was present, or the night before had turned sour in the day after, and the polite pretension was established that the night had never been. I hoped it was the former, but I had a depressed feeling in the neat and lonely room that it was the latter, and pretty soon I got up to see what two more fingers of Jim Beam could do about the feeling.

  It didn’t do much. After drinking it and waiting for the lift that didn’t occur, I took off my shoes and put out the light and lay down on my back on the bed in the darkness. She was only, I thought, a classy little tramp who shouldn’t matter much to anyone on earth, just as Faith Salem was only a slightly classier tramp in the sun or out of it, and a man was much better off to make his own coffee and his own bed and to lie alone and uncommitted in his own neat and lonely room. It was then about seven-thirty, an hour and a half before I had to be in my office in faith with Colly, and I guess it was about eight, after a fine half hour of wonderful rationalizing, when the telephone rang and I answered it.

  “Hello, ugly,” Robin said.

  “Whom did you want?” I said. “I think you have a wrong number.”

  “Don’t be silly. I had to say that because Silas was here.”

  “It occurred to me that he was. On the other hand, I considered the possibility that maybe you’d decided it wouldn’t develop. I was lying here thinking about it when you called.”

  “I thought you were going to Amity.”

  “I thought I was too, but something kept getting in the way.”

  “What was it?”

  “Several things. I got fired and rehired, and then I went to see a couple of people about an accident, and finally I got an honest and simple job for an hour tonight.”

  “I don’t believe I quite understand all this.”

  “Neither do I, honey. I’m just moving along with things, and I don’t have much of an idea where, if anywhere, I’ll wind up.”

  “Are you still going to Amity?”

  “Tomorrow, if nothing else gets in the way.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t come to see you tonight, but it’s impossible.”

  “All right. I’ll hang onto the raincheck.”

  “You do that. Did you like the way I left your room?”

  “It was very neat and empty. Do you always leave a room so empty?”

  “I have a feeling that you’ve just paid me a great compliment. Did you?”

  “I tried.”

  “You know something? I’m beginning to like you quite a lot. You’re ugly and comfortable and sentimental and capable at times of being exciting. I hope nothing unfortunate happens to you as a result of this case you’re on. I think I’d regret it.”

  “No more than I.”

  “Well, you’ll have to be careful, that’s all. Is Darcy still following you?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t spotted him.”

  “It isn’t likely that you would. Darcy’s competent. He’s good at anything he undertakes.”

  “I have evidence of Darcy’s competence, and I’ve already conceded it.”

  “Maybe you’d better give up.”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

  “Didn’t Silas offer you five grand? It would make you not so poor, and I’d enjoy helping you spend it.”

  “Don’t be so mercenary, honey. The best things in life are free.”

  “If you’re thinking about what I think you’re thinking about, it might not be as free as you’re thinking it is.”

  “That’s a pretty complex statement, but I get the idea.”

  “It’s just something to consider. How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know. As long as it takes.”

  “What takes?”

  “I don’t know that, either. Whatever it is.”

  “Will you call me when you get back?”

  “The first fair day.”

  “All right. Good-bye, ugly.”

  “Good-bye,” I said.

  I hung up and lay down on my back on the bed again. I felt much better than I had, and the room, although still neat, did not seem so lonely. I kept on lying there with my mind pleasantly still and stagnate and unconcerned with pressing problems, and when it got to be eight-thirty I put on my shoes and went to the office.

  13

  The glass in the hall door was glazed by the low light in the hall. The light passed on a narrow path through the tiny waiting room and into my office and touched a chair and the corner of the desk, but other objects were no more than deeper shadows in the shadowed room. I stood by the narrow window and looked down into the narrow alley. Above the door of the building opposite, a bulb was burning in a dirty round globe. It cast a soiled perimeter on old brick, and within the perimeter as I stood looking down were two empty cans and a broken bottle and a piece of newspaper, stirred by the draught between buildings, that moved slowly across the area of light and passed into the outer darkness beyond. I had the notion, watching, that I could hear the dry rustle of the paper as it moved. But this was only a trick of imagination in silence and shadows, and I heard nothing, actually, but
the sighs and soft complaints of old wood and brick and steel and stone and mortar, the worn substance of old buildings.

  I hadn’t ignored the possibility that I might be waiting in a trap. Turning away from the window, I sat down behind the desk out of reach of the faint light. In the belly drawer of the desk was a loaded .38 automatic. I opened the drawer and removed the automatic and laid it on the desk in a position convenient to my right hand. Besides the narrow window overlooking the alley, the only way into the room was the door from the hall. I sat and watched for a sudden shadow on the glaze of glass, but there was no shadow and no sound, except the tired sounds of the old building in the night, and I continued to sit there in the expectation of anything or nothing from a little after nine until a little after nine-thirty, about twenty years altogether.

  I stood up and stretched and lit a cigarette and sat down again, and all at once I became intensely conscious of the telephone. It crouched on the desk like a black and breathing miniature monster, exploiting in malice its constant threat to shatter the silence with its shrill bell, and tension and malice gathered and grew between us as I waited and waited for another twenty years for the bell to ring, but it never did. At ten o’clock exactly by the luminous dial of the watch on my wrist I stood up again and put the .38 into the pocket of my coat on the right side and went out through the little waiting room and beyond the glazed glass into the hall. After locking the door behind me, I read the address on the scrap of paper Colly Alder had given me, and then I went down to my car and started through the streets toward the street of the address.

  I was driven now by a growing sense of urgency. I didn’t know why precisely. I only knew that Colly had not called, and that his not calling was somehow of ominous significance to him and possibly to me. It took me almost half an hour to reach the apartment building in which Rosie lived. I ignored the elevator and climbed the stairs to the right floor and the right door. I knocked three times with intervals between, but no one came, and I had a feeling that no one would ever come if I knocked at intervals forever.

  Made wary by a premonition of trouble, I used a handkerchief in handling the doorknob. It turned smoothly and silently under pressure, and I slipped into a tiny foyer and took two steps into a living room. A light was burning in a wall bracket and another on a table at the end of a sofa, and I saw immediately by the light that my premonition had been solid. Someone was in trouble, bad trouble, and it might turn out to be Percy Hand, or person or persons unknown, but whoever it was, it wasn’t little Rosie the redhead, for Rosie was out of trouble for good and all. I could see her bare feet and ankles and about six inches of green velvet lounging pants projecting beyond the end of the sofa opposite the table with the lamp, and from the position of the scarlet-tipped toes, pointing at the ceiling, it was apparent that she was lying on her back on the floor, and the odds were enormous against her having lain down there for a nap.

  I walked across the room and around the sofa and looked down at her. She was not as cute as she had been a few hours ago when she had given me the formal treatment and stared her resentment of my casual threat to pull Colly’s nose. Her eyes were open and fixed in anguish and terror, and her slender throat was bruised and crushed by the pressure of fingers. There is, I think, something especially terrible in a killing by hands. A knife or a gun or a bludgeon seem, somehow, to come between the killer and the victim and to share the guilt of the killing. But there is nothing to share the guilt of naked hands. A hands killing has an incomparable quality of cruelty.

  In a gesture of futile formality, I knelt beside the body and felt for a pulse, but there was none. The flesh, however, was still warm and pliant, and I was shaken by the anger and pity that were elements of my futility. Rosie the redhead had probably been an avaricious little wench, surely no better and probably not so good as she should have been. But she had at least been faithful and important to one odd and insignificant runt. Most of all, she had been warm and alive and full of juice, and it was wrong and ugly and pitiable that she was now dead by hands. After perhaps thirty seconds beside her, I stood up and went out the way I had come in, using my handkerchief on the knob as I went.

  At first I thought I’d call the police, but then I thought I wouldn’t. Not yet. Behind the wheel of my car, I lit a cigarette and tried to think logically. What I tried logically to determine was why Rosie had died, and it seemed to me pretty apparent. Colly had said to go see Rosie at ten if he had not called before. Rosie would have, he had said, something interesting to tell me. This meant, no doubt, that Rosie had been possessed of certain dangerous information she was under instructions to divulge if a certain questionable and perilous venture in which Colly was certainly engaged went wrong. In brief, Rosie and I together had been Colly’s insurance, and the insurance, like the venture, had gone wrong. Ten o’clock was long past, and Rosie was dead, and Colly had not called, and why hadn’t he? Well, it didn’t take any genius to answer that one. He hadn’t called, I was sure, for the same reason that Rosie hadn’t answered the door.

  Starting the car, I drove to the good block of good street where Colly had his office, but the street door to the lobby was locked, and I could see, looking up the face of the building, not a single light in any window. I considered rattling up the watchman, if any, but decided against it. Instead, I found a telephone booth in a cigar store and looked up Colly’s name in the white pages of the directory. He had a private residential phone, all right, and the place of his residence was a fair hotel on the south side of town. While I was in the booth, on the long chance of better luck than I expected, I spent a dime and dialed his number, but luck was not better, and no one answered, and after three long rings I hung up and returned to my car and drove to the hotel.

  The small lobby was empty, and no clerk was in evidence behind the desk. I’d have preferred climbing the stairs unseen, and that’s what I’d have done if I’d known the number of Colly’s room, but I didn’t know it, and so I couldn’t. There was a call bell on the desk, and I slapped it with a palm and waited and slapped it again, and pretty soon after the second slap a tousled character came out of a back office digging the sleep out of his eyes. I thought that he might be annoyed and slightly recalcitrant because of being wakened, but he didn’t seem to be. He seemed to be no more than anxious to dispose of me and to get back to his cot. I gave him Colly’s name, and he checked a file and gave me Colly’s number, and I went up to the number while he went back to the cot.

  There was a crack of light under Colly’s door, and the knob of the door turned easily in my hand. I went into the room and closed the door behind me, and there was no one there but me. A magazine was lying face down on a lumpy sofa. A small radio on a small table was playing softly a current tune. As I looked and listened, the tune ended and a clever deejay announced another tune that was to follow. And in a few seconds, sure enough, it followed. There were two doors in the wall of the room to my left as I stood by the door to the hall. One of the doors was partly open to disclose a closet. The other was tightly closed, and I went over and opened it. Beyond was a bathroom, and Colly was in it. Besides being dead, he was in extremely bad condition.

  He was lying in the bathtub with his mouth stuffed full of a handkerchief gag and his head propped against the rise of porcelain beneath the water taps, and his face was swollen and stained by tears. His shirt had been torn open at the throat, and his tie was missing, and the reason the tie was missing was because it had been used to bind his wrists together behind his back. The belt had been removed from his trousers to secure his ankles, and the shoe and sock had been stripped from his left foot. The sole of the foot was deeply burned in three places where something very hot, probably the coal of a cigarette, had been applied. Besides all this, there was a neat small-caliber hole in his forehead just above the bridge of his nose, and a trickle of blood had run down from the hole to add its stain to the stain of tears.

  Colly had obviously been tortured in the first place and murdered in the
third place, and what had happened between in the second place was surely the telling of a secret that Colly had wanted to keep. It was a competent job of practical sadism, in the general sense of sadism without sex; and the first name that came into my mind was the name of Darcy. But why it should have, what the connection could possibly have been between Darcy and Colly, was something I didn’t know and couldn’t guess.

  I backed out and closed the door and used Colly’s private phone to get Homicide at police headquarters. A Sergeant Dooley answered, and I told him who I was and where I was and why I was calling. I also told him the location and condition of Rosie. He told me to wait, and I said I would and hung up and started. It looked, I thought, like a long, long night, and while I was waiting for the police to come in the beginning of what was left of it, I went back in my mind to where I’d left Colly earlier and tried to think on from there.

  Colly had been living off the fat—that was apparent—and such affluence was not commensurate with his ability, which was scant, and his practice, which was negligible. He had surely, in brief, been tapping for some time a source of revenue that had nothing to do with what he earned as a somewhat legitimate operator. Moreover, he had been dreaming of points south and Rosie on a beach, and this suggested strongly, if it did not establish, that he had planned a quick and considerable killing and a sudden exit. So he had made the definite arrangements for a dangerous meeting, and Rosie and Percy Hand had been essentials in the arrangements. The name of the person with whom Colly had met had been known to Rosie, and the purpose of the meeting had been known, and it had been her assignment, if anything went wrong for Colly, to see that justice, or at least retribution, was accomplished. I had been picked, or had as a result of a combination of circumstances presented myself, as the agent of the justice or the retribution, whichever you could call it. And maybe, just maybe, there was an association of Colly’s interests and mine of which I was still innocent.